Inkspill
by I am the antihero Calmasis
Summary: Littering the streets of Lolar are the many desperate and alone. A kind girl by the name of Rose has decided to help them out. Selfless acts lead nowhere but to pain, and that's where this will land her.
1. Rainy Streets of Lolar

It was late afternoon. As such, the sun hung low in the sky, causing the ground and roof ledges of Lolar to glisten from the morning's drizzle. Rain droplets wreathed the bus station, slipping from it and onto the ground, adding only further to the growing collections below. The slick road bore no cars on it, while its sidewalk carried but two individuals: a woman sitting on the curb, coat wrapped around her to shield herself from the heavenly tears, and yours truly: one miss Rose Lalonde.

The woman stayed where she was, huddled over the road. Her dark coat made near everything about her hard to determine save from her drooped shoulders, and slumped head. She looked like one with lost hopes, as with the territory of those among the homeless ranks. For the most part, that was true. So why not make time out of the day to help someone like her? Any good Samaritan would, and it was about time to change how people think of me. But that had nothing to do with this poor woman, it was just a thought.

The woman seemed to pay no attention to her surroundings, only the ground in front of her held her attention. So it was dreadfully easy to walk up to her and take a seat next to this poor soul. She didn't even react when a bag was placed next to her. Poor woman...

A standard greeting of "Hey," was given, with only a nod as a response or sign that she acknowledged my presence. This was fairly normal; she was always in this strange stupor until you pulled her out of it. You just had to know how to go about it.

"Are you doing alright, Mrs. Peters?"

A shrug was her response, but she said nothing, nor did anything else.

"Are you sure?"

This time, a nod.

"Well, alright. Just know that I am worried about you, Mrs. Peters. I just want you to be happy, so I'll ask this again: are you doing alright, Mrs. Peters?"

Mrs. Peters shifted the way her coat laid over her shoulders, shooting a glance at me without ever truly looking up.

"About as fine as anyone in this situation," she rasped. She sounded parched, her voice hoarse and scratchy. But there was nothing I could do about that, sadly. Mrs. Peters would remain like that. Attempts to change this in the past only brought about poor results.

"Well, you're obviously a little better; it didn't take as long for me to grab your attention. That's an improvement." I let a small smile grace my lips for a moment to reassure her it was alright, despite everything that had happened. That it'd be okay.

She returned the smile for a moment, for it disappeared as quickly as it came. She never turned her gaze away from the wet asphalt, however. Either she was still out of it, or simply didn't want to make eye contact. Knowing Mrs. Peters, though, it was more likely the latter.

"I don't think I'd be this...conscious, I guess that's the word I'm thinking of, if it weren't for you." She let out a sigh, closing those wary eyes of hers. "Why have you been so persistent? You never knew me, but you've made a point of taking time out of your day just to sit here. Why? Why do you even bother?"

"Why not?" I wrapped blonde and black hair around my finger, looking out into the street while giving Mrs. Peters a sideways glance. "I just saw a lonely being sitting out here in the persistent rain, cowering under her jacket. Naturally, my first thought was to help her, and here we are now, four years and twenty-six full conversations later. I'm just happy to see you talking finally, since you absolutely refused to speak for a good two-and-a-half years. I'm glad to help, if it means your improvement. Anything to get you back to peak mental condition." To add on to the statement, and hopefully get this soul to smile just a little again, I rested a hand on my chest dramatically and added a similar dramatic flare to my tone. "Even if I must sell my own soul to the higher powers in the stars, or Satan himself, I swear unto you that I will help you return to your previous state of mind, humor and all."

Much to my pleasant surprise, Mrs. Peters began to laugh, covering her face as she did so. Scratchy, twisted, and demented as it sounded, hearing this unfortunate woman laugh was a reward enough in its own right. Just simply knowing she found something funny was enough for me. But, making someone like Mrs. Peters laugh wasn't nearly enough. Continuing in my effort to aid her was, unfortunately, necessary. Someone in her state of mind wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

After a few moments passed, Mrs. Peters calmed down, returning to her normal disposition and pose I knew her to maintain. Sad, lonely, and distant; almost as if the ground she stared at endlessly were draining the life out of her with every passing moment, tearing her soul from this existence to the darker, possibly tortuous other. Very little could pull her out of this depressing stupor; the fact her speaking this long was an absolute miracle in its own right. And God and gods forbid she ever laugh; the rare occasions that she actually did, such as the case that was mere moments ago, were like hearing a dead language spoken after years of disuse, millenia even: rough, clunky, but amazing nonetheless.

But it was times like my silence then to think on what Mrs. Peters and others like her always asked me: "Why bother?"

Why, indeed? I could easily go about my way and leave people like Mrs. Peters alone, damned to rot, sentenced to fester in their misery and contemplate awful, terrible things to do to themselves and others. I could be like my sister, who drowns it all out by drowning in the liquor she consumes on the daily, but I could never bring myself to fall so far as to allow myself to slip into substance abuse. I wasn't that desperate to mute the voices of those who needed it the most. It would be cruel. God bless my sister, she is a sweetheart through and through, but by silencing the world with various alcoholic drinks, she is inadvertently cruel to those who need help, and need it the most. The poor, unfortunate, lost souls of Lolar needed someone to open an ear to them, extend a hand in the hopes of helping them. They shouldn't be ignored, no matter how far they've gone.

Even difficult cases like Mrs. Peters.

Just by reading the expression on her face, even with how shrouded it was by her matted hair, and slouched posture, I could tell she was slipping again. If nothing were to be done, she'd fall back into her slump, and I'd have to start all over again. I couldn't allow this.

To catch her attention, I moved my bag so I could better access it, rummaging around noisily to keep her focus on me, and what I was doing. After a few moments of this, pawing around in my bag and its many contents, I pulled out a folder labeled "For Mrs. Peters," and held it up for her to see.

"Is that it?" she rasped. Her gaze fell to my hand as I nodded and confirmed her statement. The one eye I could see seemed to widen as she gave her full attention to me.

"I told you I'd look it up." I closed my bag while my other hand passed the folder to Mrs. Peters so she could check its contents. "I'm surprised you remember this. You don't usually remember exact conversations. I'd say that's a major improvement. I wonder what ever could've done that?"

"You've made an impression on me, I guess," came her throaty reply. A shaky hand slipped from her coat to take the folder from me. I could see her flipping through the documents inside, and I swore I caught her eyes widen when she stopped to hover over one particular photo included.

"He's that old now?" she rasped, her voice trembling with her hands. When she got her confirmation, a weak laugh came from her, maybe even a laugh of disbelief. "I can't believe it's actually been that long...God, he's twenty-two now?" Tears seemed to well up in her eyes as she sat there, a hand over her mouth.

"Like I've said, and have said many times before, you've been here as long as I could remember. This just verifies the fact you've been here as long as I've existed, only with a few extra months add on to it to make the time a bit longer than my own time in this world."

"Fifteen years..." I caught her mumbling. "He was so little...I..."

I cleared my throat, catching her attention again. "He's in college now, you know. He's studying criminal justice at an esteemed school. I actually met him. He seems to be well off."

The growing puddle beneath Mrs. Peters rippled as tears were added to the mix of rain water, rainbow-y oil, and a dark liquid that was hard to determine the origin of. She trembled again, silent sobs racking her body. The folder that held the information on her son fell to the ground as her hands went to cover her mouth.

"He's doing alright," she said, her voice cracking as she spoke. "He's actually doing alright. I-" She paused and looked at me fully for the first time since I met her, her pale, gaunt face obscured by her messy, matted hair. Her eyes seemed to bore into mine as she removed bloodied hands from her mouth. "Is he happy? Is he doing alright without me? He's not stuck in the past, is he?!"

As much as I hate to admit it, I flinched when she turned to face me. She told me why she kept her head down like that: to avoid being stared at because of some ungodly disfigurement. I always thought it ridiculous that she'd hide herself like that, and never believed it was as severe as it actually was, and as fitting as the apt description of "ungodly." Blood eternally trickled down the left half of her face from the large wound where no skin remained, and not enough flesh was left to cover her cracked skull. Her arms were twisted under her coat, and her palms, of which I could clearly see, had a similar treatment done to them as her face; palms stripped of skin as well as most of her flesh to reveal those white bones of hers. That eternal puddle by the bus stop continued to have her life essence fed into it, growing darker still with that rich red.

Try as I might, I could never get that picture out of my head of her skinless visage, and the red blood that dripped from her face and matted her hair together. Those lifeless eyes that seemed to glace over as she looked at me. It took every force of my will to not react too violently or make any kind of verbal exclamation. Flinching was just an unfortunate natural reaction.

To not upset her further with how I reacted to her startling appearance, I held a hand up to calm her down and answer her questions.

"He's happy, and is doing very well. I think he's trying to be as happy as he can possibly be, with all things considered. Everything he does, he has you in mind. He cares about you greatly, and will never forget you." I, however, would never forget that grotesque face.

There was a long pause after that, filled to the brim with tense silence. Mrs. Peters looked at me with those dull, sad eyes of hers, tears welling up and diluting the blood that clung to her face. She sat there for a good long while, mouth hung open from speechlessness. It was a miracle her jaw remained attached this whole time, what with the missing muscle around it. It wasn't a significant thought, to wonder about her jaw; just my own morbid curiosity slipping through yet again.

She continued to stare at me for moments longer, her hollow eyes unblinking. The look she gave me, hard to discern what with the distracting gore, was as if no one had shown her an ounce of kindness in her life or afterlife; that look as if my actions were a surprising enigma. A pang of sadness resonated through me at this, staying only for a moment before I brushed it away. I doubt that pitying her would help her feel any better. I had to keep a straight face.

That task was difficult in its own right as Mrs. Peters did something I never expected, nor predicted for her to ever do: initiate physical contact. Even more startling was not just the fact she moved from her normal position, but the fact she _hugged_ me. Grasped me tightly in her mangled, broken arms.

It was a strange feeling. I could see the blood that seeped from those open wounds, feel it on my skin, and smell the life essence that came from her face, arms, and hands. Everything told me that it was there, being smeared all over my clothes and body. But it wasn't. I had to keep telling myself it was alright, despite the fact I could clearly feel something that _wasn't_ there. It was a confusing sensation; one I had to fight through in order to respond accordingly to her.

Releasing the constrained breath that I had unintentionally imprisoned within myself, I wrapped my arms around her, patting her head in reassurance. She was still crying, audibly this time. Between broken, hoarse sobs, she thanked me. Over, and over again. Thanked me for checking up on her son, thanked me for talking with her, and thanked me for my kindness.

It was a good minute or so before she finally pulled back, a smile spread across that mauled face of hers. Disturbing as it was, it was almost relieving to see.

"He's safe," she kept repeating, staring at me with a genuine look of happiness on her face. "He's fine. He's alright. Thank you _so_ much, Rose. I wish I could repay you. I just. _Thank_ _you._ "

A smile spread across my face, despite my now bloody appearance. "It's no problem at all, Mrs. Peters. You don't have to do anything. I'm just happy I could help you."

A small sigh came from Mrs. Peters as she slumped against the bus station, sitting up fully and looking around her for once in her afterlife. I noticed her looking right at me as I stood up and bowed my head in apology. I had to leave, that I explained to her. I had to get back home and get to my work before it got too late. Thankfully, she understood. She still continued to thank me. Over, and over again. I guess I did make leave an impression on her. Maybe one for the better.

As I made to leave, I couldn't help but look back. Half expecting her to be back to slouching over the asphalt, I was relieved to see her standing up and looking out beyond the town, coat still wrapped around her shoulders, but not using it as a shield this time, but more to keep it close to her as if it were the last reminder of her living self.

A smile spread back across my face as I turned to leave. I knew I wasn't nearly done with her, as she still hung around, but to at least make her life a little happier while she still existed in this plane was enough for one day. I'd still come back tomorrow and talk to her; that wouldn't change. This was just a step forward towards progress in bringing her back to the way she was when she still drew breath.

* * *

To think that anything was different at my house was a ridiculous notion. For as always, that looming manor surrounded by the trees of Lolar's outskirts stood there like a dark reminder of the desolation brought about through isolation. It stood alone amongst the towering pines and firs, and amidst a few spindly, boney birches that were transplanted by my mother's hand, poorly per the locale. It's not that they were sickly, oh no. It's just that they stood out, and looked incredibly gaudy. And, to be blunt, incredibly weird.

The lawn was barely kept, showing the telltale signs of neglect. It needed to be tended to – mowed, weeded, pruned – yet had not. And per the norm, as it was my sister's turn to do so, it fell upon me to uphold her responsibility lest she harm her intoxicated self in the process. Wouldn't want a fingerless sister, now, would I?

My statement of nothing changing applied not only to the sorry state of our lawn, but to the inside of my place of residence, as well. The porch, entry way, and hallways were spotless, yes, but a strange dissonance accompanied it. It was the habitual, and almost obsessive method in which everything was cleaned, like a specter digging itself further and further into the rut that was its afterlife, doomed to repeat the same tasks over and over again for time immemorial.

So were the repetitive habits held by my mother, the kind of drunk that cleans anything she lays her eyes on.

But even with how precisely clean everything was, it still felt as abandoned as the front lawn looked. Nothing had moved from its place in as... well, as long as I could remember. Nothing was out of place, everything was the epitome of neat.

Well, save for the one place that I walked into that was almost always occupied: the kitchen.

As usual, a pile of dishes was stacked haphazardly on the kitchen counter, surrounded by similar stacks that were waiting for me to deal with them. My sister keeps saying she'll do them, but never goes through with it; thankfully not out of malice. I had to make a mental note, though, to do them tonight while she was asleep.

And per the norm of my household, lo and behold, who should be lying on the kitchen table: none other than my dear older sister, Roxy; liquor bottles strewn around her, with one settled close to her hand. Well, it is how they say: speak of the devil, and he shall come. Or in this case, she.

This sight didn't anger me like it would most other people; no, what should have made me angry with her only made me pity her. I'll be honest: I feel bad for her, what with this state she's in. I've been trying my absolute hardest to pull her out of this slump, but with no success. Poltergeists were easier to help than she was, as sad it was to say. But I don't blame her recession; having the same spectral ability that I have was too much for her, and combined with the deaths of her best friends, and having an unsupportive mother, her fall into intoxication was no surprise. Yes, I wish she would help out more often, but I don't blame her for not. It's why the slack is always picked up by me, myself, and, we should never forget the most important person, I.

My entrance wasn't ignored, seeing as Roxy looked up lazily from the table and acknowledged my presence. Well, not lazily. More like tiredly. Did she even get any sleep? Or did she just knock out on the table again?

"Morning, Roxy," I greeted simply. "Planning on sobering up any time soon?"

That statement earned me a critical look from my sister, and next to no time was wasted on her reply.

"Don't start fuckin' with my head, Rosie. I know damn well what time it is, don't need you goin' around with your. Your weirdo black magic makin' me think you control time." She spoke with a slight lilt, a slur that persisted despite her obvious best attempts. "And I'll be sober when I'm damn ready to be. And that is _not_ today. Hell naw, sis. Sober isn't a place I'm goin' to be in any time soon."

With an attitude like that, it was as clear as the day that I was going to lose my sister to liver failure, and these were going to be her famous last words.

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked her over, making a display of this snarky action to emphasize on the fact I was harassing her. "Oh, really? Then please, pray tell me what time it is?"

I knew it was 4:53 in the afternoon. If she could remember how to read a clock, then this would be, as she puts it, a no brainer.

Roxy snorted, her shoulders rising and falling with her laughter. "Holy shit, sis, that's an easy one." Another becoming snort escaped her as she sat up, propping her head on her hand whilst giving me a smug look like she had already won. "It's EST. Eastern Skaian Time."

The silence that accompanied her statement almost seemed planned for a strange, comedic effect that those that live above had intended for this whole time.

I sighed loudly and covered my face with my hand, shaking my head. "Roxy, I said time. Not time zone. There's a difference. Actually, quite a huge difference. Why don't you try again?"

She blinked and stared at me. "Try...what again?"

And here was this routine again. Unfortunately, I wasn't thinking and continued like any other person would. "Telling the time."

"Telling the time what?"

"What time it is."

"Oh, easy. EST."

"No, I meant currently."

"Currently what?"

"Time. What time is it?"

"Rosie, I already said. EST."

"And I already said that EST is a time zone, not the time. Why don't you tell the time?"

"Yeah, alright. Clock, it's Eastern Skaian Time. Rosie's being dumb again and not listening, so you. You're the only one who understands me. Mister clock, be my friend again."

"You're talking to a clock."

"You told me to."

"No, I asked you to _tell the time_."

"And I told the time that it's EST. What more do you want?"

"How about you tell me what time it is?"

"Standard twelve hour. We don't do military time here, Rose. That'd be so fuckin' weird if we did."

"Standard twelve...Roxy, I don't want to know about military time."

"Then spill it already, Rose! What do you want?"

"I've already told you."

"Nah, you've told me shit. What's it you want from me?"

"To tell the time."

"Clock! Rose wants something but she won't tell me!"

And there came the straw that broke the camel's back.

"God fucking damn it all, tell me what time it is currently. Because I really don't want to do this Labyrinth routine all over again. We're going 'round in circles, and we're getting nowhere. Just tell me what the damned time is."

She knew I was on to her. Admittedly, I felt bad for letting my anger get the best of me. I still feel bad I let her get to me that easily. I suppose the mixture of all of my chores weighing me down, along with watching her slip like that caught me in not the best of moods. It doesn't change the fact I was short with her, but I'm just human. What do you expect? We all make mistakes here and again. Even I, Rose Lalonde, makes mistakes. But that's a secret best kept to myself and my writings.

Much to my relief, Roxy didn't seem very fazed by that sudden snap. On the contrary, she seemed to find it funny. She let out a snort after my snippy comment, almost falling forward onto the table in front of her. I could never understand why she found things like that funny, but at least I made her laugh and didn't upset her. That was the only positive side to my outburst.

"Nah, I'm just messin' with ya. 4:55, Rosie. 4:55." This shit eating grin was spread wide across her face, giving her the semblance of the one she so dearly loved, that estranged Cheshire Cat. I should've gotten mad at her, but I couldn't. This was my sister, after all. So I let a rare laugh escape me as I made to leave.

"Well, at least you can preform one basic function necessary in today's society." I shook my head out of bemusement, almost as an attempt to erase any and all frustration. "Now that my mind's at ease, I shall take my leave. I've dire work that needs to be done, and I can tarry no longer."

"Then get goin', ya nerd." A loud snort escaped her as she stood up herself. "You're the only thing keepin' you here. Mooove."

My only response to that was a shake of my head, and an unseen roll of my eyes. Giving her any kind of verbal response seemed unnecessary, so I just went about my way to the stairwell.

As was the layout of my home, I had to walk past the closed door of my mother's office. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind; she was in there, toiling away at whatever it was she did for work. She never told us what she did, just told us to leave her alone while she was, well, working. No problem whatsoever, considering the fact that Roxy's addiction came from somewhere. I'm fairly certain that our mother spends most of her time in there drinking her life away, and not working. And I can say this with certainty, for in all of my life, I've never seen my mother in a sober state once, just as Mrs. Peters has always been there, hunched over the pavement by that lonely bus stop. Roxy even confirmed my own observations, noting she'd never seen mother dearest sober. She was perpetually intoxicated, and just downright tipsy.

Something about my mother made me uneasy. Shame I'm not very introspective; I had no clue – not the foggiest hint, as to why I felt that way about my own mother. I just did. I can't say it was pleasant, living in such apprehension; all I can really say is nothing, as I held no strong feelings on the matter.

I simply avoided taking an opinion.

The trek back to my room took a minute or three as I traversed the flights of stairs and winding corridors. Dark and eerie, they were, with dismal scenes depicting waterfronts and fields framed upon the walls that seemed to close in around me. The lighting of the hallway made these somber pictures appear demented and unwelcoming, which made the walk to my room all the more fun.

I did make it there in one piece, however. Such a _grueling_ task, yet so successful – I even made it to my bedroom without a single scratch upon my pale skin! Such an accomplishment! Once I was in the sanctum of my room, I finally felt alone enough to cast my guard to the wind and just relax.

Bag tossed haphazardly to the ground, and homework extracted from it in a not-so graceful manner of tearing it and the other contents of my bag out of it and onto the ground to locate it, I set to work on this frivolous task. As I spent a few hours or so on my "homework," I couldn't help but muse at the fact I was doing this, after many years of self teaching and quote-unquote, "homeschooling." I swore I'd never set foot in a school, for the petty reason of not wanting to seem like a little Roxy Minor, or fall into the horrendous stereotypes that plague the television. I didn't want to be that friendless, cynical goth girl I pitied so often. I didn't want to have to deal with those supposed jocks, or cheerleaders they hung around. Demonic teachers, fights in hallways; all of it was painted so vividly on numerous television shows, and written out so clearly in many books I happened to read. With how consistent these stereotypes were, I couldn't help but believe them to be true, and the more I believed them, the more I wanted to stay at home, safe from the world, and take things at my own pace and not the predetermined pace of the accursed public school.

But I then realized how easy it was to fall into restlessness. How quickly one became stir crazy, and how aggravating the isolation was. Yes, I could study what I pleased, but staying at home with my drunken mother made me feel more alone than I truly was.

Well, homeschooling's not for everyone; that I learned the hard way. School isn't as terrible as I imagined it to be, but it was still bad. While it was admittedly lacking the rampant stereotypes, it was filled to the brim with infecting apathy that it was almost as intoxicating as my sister's favorite brand of whiskey. The only way I could tolerate it was my small group of friends, and the prospect of seeing them near every day; it was that simple reason that kept me going back there.

But I still can't get on board with the idea of homework, though. Yes, I will do it. No, I will not like it. My disdain for it stemmed from how long it took to complete it, wasting good hours that could be used to hone my artistic abilities in both the literary and graphical senses. I could be doing so much more in my spare time: reading, practicing on my beloved instrument of choice, trekking through our dense forest out back, but no. I had to sit here for tortuous hours upon hours and go through this menial task I had to complete lest they deem me as a dunce. And as if to prove my point of it taking too long, having yet to even finish it, my phone's timer went off, alerting me of one of my many chores: dinner for my sister and I. While it wasn't a particularly long task, it was still a task in its own that I did in my lonesome.

It never used to be like that. Roxy used to cook for the both of us. After I while, I started to help her and learn the skills for myself. But thanks to her current debilitated state, the task has now fallen solely onto me. Joy. It's really no wonder why we have so much take-out trash laying about the house.

And really, before I knew it, I was back in my personal sanctuary, finishing up my homework. Dinner doesn't take that long to make, as it was just throwing together some leftovers and making sure Roxy didn't burn herself, and ate something that was remotely healthy. So it took little to no time to finish that task and get back to the hellish one called "homework." And so things continued that way. The night remained as it had been for the past year or so:

Dreary and uneventful; boring and our Lalondian brand of "normal."

* * *

Hey, thanks for bearing with me, and thanks for reading chapter one. You just toiled through five thousand words of my prattling on about Rose and her ghostly affliction, so thanks. I know what it's classified as, just bear with me.

Thanks again for reading.

-Enya


	2. The Dead Hold Grudges

I doubt you'd want to hear of what I do in my free time. I'm really very boring; you'd lose interest very quickly if I told you about my writings, projects, books, and practice in excruciating detail. Why would you be here if you wanted to hear tale of the _Monstrumologist_ , when you could read it first hand? I highly doubt that'd interest you, so I'll spare you the trouble. While yes, I will admit I spent quite a bit of time practicing various pieces on my dear violin and viola, in hopes to match one fictional Erich Zann, and even more time on stances and techniques in the saber I adored, all of this only amounted in maybe four or five hours of distraction. Those crooked clock hands crept ever steadily over time, only to rest on 10:48, signifying the late hours of the night. It was only Thursday, so seeing this time made me only frustrated ever still. To Hell with the notion I'd ever get a full night's sleep; I was doomed to exhaustion. Fate seemed to loathe me, molding my life to the way she saw fit. No, I'll say it now: sleep was the one thing I didn't get that night.

Per my norm, I idled about my room, not really wanting to sleep as I saw it as an unfortunately necessary waste. Life is unbearably short, and having to take six-to-eight hours out of your day, every day, to just lay there and do nothing but "recharge" is just silly in concept. You lose a third of the day to something as ridiculous as sleep. But if you try to avoid it, well, you die an early and embarrassing death. While there's been no confirmation of anyone dying due to sleep deprivation, I refuse to be the first. I had my pride to uphold.

So naturally, I had to force myself through the arduous task of getting ready for bed.

I'd yet to even change into my pajamas when I heard the tell tale cacophony of one of the many spirits that inhabited my home. It was no secret as to who it was: I knew immediately by the loud screaming, crying, and crashing of the child who refused to give me his name. He liked to wander this house and its many corridors, and cause an absolute ruckus, knocking our things around, and being a general nuisance. With the trend I'd noticed, his cries sounded near demonic and hellish. He sounded as if he were being tormented, though I knew all too well he was simply throwing a temper tantrum. It was honestly to be expected; when you walk around with your skin mostly burned off, and ribs crushed almost comically, you're allowed a bit of time to scream out in misery.

But that dreaded night was different from all others before it.

When I first started to see him, he cried and spoke normally, with no hindrance or filter. Over time, however, his voice began to warp into that chilling wail I heard that fateful night. Shrieking, wailing, and other sounds that would fit in perfectly in a demonic chorus, the sounds that haunt nightmares, and hellish fever dreams. I've tried to help him act like what he was - a _child_ \- but nothing's worked in my favor, as I've only succeeded in incurring his wrath. Almost consistently, night after night, I've been forced to flee onto the balcony, risking further anger from the boy should I run into him. Ghosts shouldn't be able to harm the living, as most can't even touch corporeal objects, yet this kid...

I wasted next to no time at all spurring myself into action. I grabbed the lighter I kept on my desk and bolted out of my room. It was just my misfortune, as normal, that no one tended to inhabit the upstairs. Despite having their own rooms in the upper part of our home, my mother and sister stayed downstairs, more often than not. Roxy oft' knocked out on the kitchen table, while my mother seemed to live in her office, leaving me dreadfully alone up here. So naturally, the burned boy's only target was yours truly. And as Luck would have it, he patrolled my home, the remnants of his decimated one, on an irregular schedule – always everyday after dusk, and always upstairs, however. So during those nightly excursions, all that could be heard downstairs by the abnormal was shrieking and loud footsteps – the normal heard only the latter.

It was nights like this one that made me believe my luck was truly rotten to the core.

Not even moments after I burst from my room like a horse in a frantic dash from the starting gates, the hallway was filled with ungodly shrieking, a demonic wailing that no human should ever be able to create. It felt as if my heart jumped into my throat and was making its way to my ears to pound repeatedly in my head like a muffled funeral bell. Every instinct told me to hide in my room, to lock the door and pray til the charred boy went about his way and remain that way 'til dawn broke, despite how fruitless that thought was, seeing how ignorant my normal instincts were. To hide would mean death, as the ghost kid had free reign of the upstairs – my room was no exception. A locked door wouldn't faze him; just imprison me.

I couldn't falter, I had to keep going. I _had_ to. But even that was difficult, as any and all light that thrived in the halls began to flicker and die. One by one, each light flitted out of existence, leaving nothing but intangible darkness, a blackness so thick I swore that even if the lights were to turn on, they'd do nary a thing to penetrate the confines of this earthly void.

This was one of the reasons why I brought my lighter.

I've tried to keep flashlights with me on these nightly excursions, in vain attempts to break the darkness, but the boy held domain over them, along with any electrical source of light. The only light I could hope to use was the most primal: fire. One not dictated by his otherworldly control over all things modern, but unfortunately feeble in comparison, allowing a fair trade off of usable versus competent.

Just as darkness blanketed itself over the hall, surrounding me in its suffocating blackness, I flipped the lighter open as a small dismal light came into being, barely doing a thing visually. The level of light wasn't my concern, as I knew these halls like the back of my hand.

My concern was the boy directly in front of me, forcing me to skid to a halt.

Those sad, hollow eyes bored right through me and seemed to pierce my soul as the child stood there, continuing to stare directly at me. I needed not the feeble light that emitted from the lighter to look upon him, as the boy was visible despite the deep darkness. So there he stood in his charred, horrific glory, appearing like a queer hallucination so starkly contrasting with the black backdrop that were the darkened halls of my home.

A dead boy was a sad sight. One should only ever feel sorrow for what could have been, feel grief for a life that was ended so soon and obviously so tragically.

Though all that I felt about him was fear.

Fear from what he's done, fear from his ghastly appearance, fear from that cold, lifeless stare that would make Mrs. Peters seem alive, fear stemmed from the result that remained unknown – was he going to continue staring, or move? Was he going to just stand there, or make a move and attack me?

He wasn't allowed the right to make the first move in that standoff, as I ripped that right from his charred hands.

Taking the initiative, I darted around the ghost boy in a few precise movements in the direction of the balcony, tearing away from that horrific sight. By precise movements, I mean a frantic dash to the balcony, barreling down that long corridor and swerving around that ghastly specter to what I considered a safe haven. Nothing about that mad dash was precise, or even remotely graceful, as it was fueled by fear, and fear alone.

I instantly regretted the decision to run. For the moment I slipped past him, the child began to shriek his horrible shrieks, demonic screams echoing 'round me. His pained wailing rang in my ears, and dare I be redundant, painfully so. If he had done that while I stood there like a statue, I'm certain I'd be deaf now. But as it was, with my escape down the hall, that scream still threatened to burst my ears and make them bleed.

The hallway felt like an endless dream. It seemed to stretch and warp into some nightmarish form, turns seeming to be where they weren't supposed to. Even though I knew my house like the back of my hand, it seemed like an alien world when drenched in the black curtains of shadows; was that wall supposed to be there? Fear warped my perception as I fled from that specter, trying my absolute damnedest to think clearly. I knew that in healthy doses, fear kept you alive, but all it was doing was clouding my better judgment.

Thanks to how frustratingly large my home is with its hallways that seemed to go on for seemingly an eternity, I was, to say the very least, relieved when I skidded onto and almost off of the balcony. A different fear reared its ugly head as I had to catch the railing to not topple over it and plummet to my assured death, this one felt by many a villain that dare to appear in a Walt Disney film. Blood pounded in my ears in time with the ringing from the apparition's hellish screaming, that aforementioned fear reaching a height that I thought for sure would never be matched again in my life – the looming fear of death on two fronts, with outlasting one being my only hope of escape. The horrific amalgamation of all it all was a disorienting and disheartening feeling as I tried to regain my balance and turn to face the ghost that haunted me so, attempting to put on a brave face and, well, face it head on.

When I turned confront the specter that haunted me so on his supposed place of death, fire gripped in my fist as I knew it kept him away for the most part, all I could see was the boy's disfigured visage. I'm not above admitting that I let out a scream equally worthy of his position in that unholy chorus. Do you blame me? Such a malformed appearance – burned and tormented – dominating my field of vision with that ghastly expression. For once, I hadn't the slightest of clues as to how to deal with him. Fire usually repelled him, terrified him to the point of petrifying fear. But for some curious reason he stood there, uncomfortably close to both myself and the active lighter and the frail flame that danced upon it. How was he not affected by it? He should have been loosing his ear rupturing shrieks, reeling away from me and off of the balcony! Not standing there, staring me down and breathing unnecessarily like some deranged smoker with that distorted rasp, and shrill wheezing.

Allow me to be blunt, and admittedly crude: I fucking hate being short. If I were just a few inches taller, I wouldn't have nightmares to this day of staring that ghoul right in the eye.

But no, I was still of diminutive stature. So when he shoved me towards the ledge with his surprising strength, I felt every last bit of it as I was thrown into the railing. And while this is where you'd think he'd be looming above me like some villain as my back crashed into the railing painfully, I assure you it was scarier. He shoved me in a manner that would suit what he should be; he threw me like a petty, bratty child would in a fight, trying desperately to assert dominance. And of course, it wasn't just my back that was hurt, no, my ears felt as if they were about to rupture, about to burst and render me deaf. I had to catch myself on the railing to even hope to remain standing. Only one good thing came of it, and that was the new distance between the child and I. Unfortunately, I had no use for it. I was having a hard time standing up as it was; there was no way I could take advantage of the gap between us.

Pain coursed through my back, spiking in intensity every time I attempted to straighten my posture. Each time that jolt of pain shot through me, I cursed every god I could think of and humanity in general for how frail our bodies are. Humans are weak; that's a simple fact I had accepted long ago, and was reminded of now. We are fragile, I'd remind myself with each failed attempt to stand up straight. And damnation to the one or ones who designed us this way, with the want to push ourselves to our limits, but the frailty that kills us when we try. To the ones or one who designed us as these stupidly determined beings of glass, I offer up to you the most generous of, "Fuck you's," and a simple bird raised to the heavens. I will forever and always hate your sense of design.

As always, Lady Luck was yet again in my favor. And I feel the need to specify my meaning in this particular passage, as tone translates terribly through text: while you should know by now what I mean when I say, "in my favor," some of you may not. So to those who don't understand my manner of speech, I mean another highly anticipated middle finger to my face for the umpteenth time this evening, gracing me with the Lady's cruelty and harshness.

The boy rushed at me as he halted his tormented tantrum, lashing out in his primal rage. He struck me in the gut with a force so shockingly strong it winded me instantly, leaving me gasping for air, and grasping at my composure. For as devastating as that hit was, it was unfortunately just the first. He didn't stop at one strike; _no,_ he kept on assaulting me until he had beat me to the ground. And though I had prayed that would be the end, my hopes were dashed as he didn't even stop then! Instead of stopping, as continuing would've been cruelly redundant, the boy moved from punching to undignified and outright barbaric kicking. In an attempt to shield myself from these blows I had no hope in blocking as he'd _break my arms_ if I even dared to try, I did the next best thing and listened to my instincts, curling up into the fetal position in a fruitless attempt to protect myself. Surely at this rate, he was going to break every bone in my body and leave me in a state akin to his own – mangled, broken, and very much so dead.

But like the damn sadist she was and remains to be, Luck didn't want to see me dead; just battered and bruised.

As the boy made to kick me again, a kick that got added to the uncounted mass of them, he faltered in his actions. I thought he had a momentary lapse in his cruelty, a change of heart so to speak, or finally realized where he stood, what with his feet planted so firmly on the site of his assumed death. It was none of those things, however. Instead, he faltered due to reasons unseen – well, unseen at first. I could only assume as to what was happening, as he reeled back, screaming, gagging, and clutching at his throat. Maybe this was how he truly died, and he was finally coming to terms with it? Or maybe he finally realized how cruel he was being, and decided to stop. I wish it had been one of those two guesses, but neither of those explained the gagging noise he produced, and definitely wasn't the real reason why he reeled away from me.

No, it was the one thing I never considered to ever be a problem; the one thing I ignored on the daily, but never fully registered due to it seeming like it existed for aesthetic purposes only:

It was the large chain anchored firmly in the boy's chest that pained him so.

Until that night, I never knew what those chains were. I always thought they were cruel metaphors, representing the fact those poor souls were chained to this mortal world and unable to pass on. I thought they were simply aesthetic, and served no purpose beyond a sick reminder. I never thought much on them, as they didn't seem to share many similarities between one and another; they all appeared very differently, from long to short, to bound or free. I mistakenly thought they held no significance, and treated them as I did to others in that category: _ignored_ it.

I should've paid attention to those accursed irons, those metaphorical anchors – it's something I still regret to this day. For the moment I decided to take notice of it, was a moment that would be forever etched in my mind: the links of that chain anchored to his chest sprang to life, thrashing about like feral animals. When I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse for this child, Life decided to horrifically correct me, as I was forced to watch the living chain whip around and begin to _devour itself_ , in a near attempt to replicate the Ouroboros imagery. This action seemed to bring the boy tremendous pain, his hellish screaming reaching a height that surpassed any I'd heard to that point. He howled, wailed, and loosed those screams into the night as the chain grew shorter and shorter, only bringing him pain, or whatever the equivalent was for those sorely departed.

I couldn't imagine it possibly getting worse for him, as this demented scene that deigned to play out before me revealed more and more twisted actors in this grim performance of his afterlife. But lo and behold, my expectations and worst fears were called on as apart of some sick audience participation by the worst of the worst, the star of this horror fest known as the Act of Rebellion Against One's Own Self. The part it played was the role of the chain, gleefully acting out its namesake in a manner most cruel and unjust. Those ethereal irons lashed about in an exaggerated manner as they grew ever closer to their anchor point, and once at their destination, turned on their owner and began their vile work. Teeth, uncannily human in appearance, tore into spectral flesh with an edacious eagerness akin, almost, to weeks-starved scavengers finally coming upon long-awaited prey, scattering the bits of flesh it rent from the departed child in every which way. Though it would seem this would be the part in the show in which the child looses his most dire, and pained shrieks for the audience to contemplate whether or not they were genuine, strained gargling muffled his voice and put a stop to that cacophonous noise. Thin, charred hands shakily rushed to his throat and clutched it in an iron grip, desperate to stop whatever it was that muted his screams. Eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets as he began to choke, gag, and sputter, his body contorting in a wild, spastic manner I never had the pleasure of witnessing until that dreadful moment. His suffering was beyond what I could comprehend, and it just seemed to get worse as the seconds crawled by at a horrendously slow gait.

As much as I wished to help, to participate in this performance in the stead of my fears and expectations and possibly ad lib my way to a better ending, I was relegated to being a useless member of the audience, bound to the ground upon which I was forced to sit by the wounds he had placed upon me. It wasn't just my wounds that held me in my seat, no; if every obstacle in my way was some form of audience member that held me down, then it was Fear that held me back by my throat, Cluelessness' incessant need to speak up for no reason other than to make it glaringly obvious that I had no idea what I was doing, and my own Wounds that made me a prisoner in my own body, forced to watch this macabre display. I struggled against them as best I could, trying to fight through pain, come up with some form of a game plan, and reason out my fears to actually do something, but nothing seemed to work! Even though he was responsible for the state I was in, I couldn't let him suffer through the tortuous experience of having his body rebel against him.

Attempt after failed attempt resulted in a slow struggle against those rowdy audience members, trying to force them away from me – particularly my Wounds and my Fears, who proved to be the most persistent in keeping me in my seat – so I could at least have some hope of standing to my feet and helping this poor boy. Milliseconds stretched into minutes, seconds into hours, as the simplest of tasks – merely _standing up_ – became arduous, tortuous even! My back screamed in anguish, it yelled, and it protested, and it begged me to just abandon the fight; begged me to forgo my reckless plan and just stay in my seat. I will say, it made a very convincing argument. Staying meant lessened pain, staying meant no more strain, staying meant rest, staying meant _healing_. While my back might have had a convincing argument, I had give my rebuttal and remind myself that staying also meant allowing myself to be vulnerable, staying meant relegating myself to that horrid role as a watcher, staying meant letting that boy suffer, and with these reasons, I could _never_ let myself stay there on good conscious (as warped as mine is). So it was with these reasons, these excuses, that I forced myself into a standing position to face the boy that haunted me nightly with no plan in hand to save him from himself, but damn if I wasn't determined to find a way as I had a will.

But by then, it was already far too late.

As I shakily stood to my feet, body screaming in protest as I tried to stand tall to face my assured death in some blind hope to help him, the star's role surmounted in a horrific climax – that one twisted Act of Rebellion Against One's Own Self. With living irons deep inside of his chest, hollowing him out as they went, the boy lurched forward as a white, viscous liquid exploded from his body, reminding me all too much of bile. His screaming was thoroughly silenced as he collapsed to his knees, gagging and heaving as this ethereal substance was expelled in a manner so violent it concerned me on levels beyond my initial worries. The said viscous fluid, that I wasn't even sure I could call a fluid, never touched the ground; it never pooled, collected, or splattered, and seemed to take on a mind of its own. Centimeters from the ground, it sprung to life and raced back at the burned boy and plowed into his face, the force knocking him backwards. His screams were back and muffled this time, but distorted all the same. Disgust-driven Horror held me captive, kept me in a demented stupor as I failed to fully grasp the reality of this event. It wouldn't let me fully comprehend or hope to understand the events playing out before me, revoking my ability to move, my ability to _act_ as the dead child scrambled to his feet and desperately and futilely attempted to rip the white viscosity off of him _._ Horror wanted me to see this distressing scene to completion, wanted me to be absorbed in the morbidity of it all. It wanted my helplessness to be fully realized in those moments of confusion, and let that be one of the few things that stand out in my lack of comprehension. This is what that cruel anthropomorphism of my fears wanted, and I surely thought it would get its sick wish!-

-Were it not for the blade that sliced cleanly through his thin neck.

Life nor the afterlife favored this child, and I was forced to bear witness to this second event. That silver blade that appeared seemingly out of nowhere severed his head so suddenly I was fairly certain I suffered whiplash from the jarring scene change. The shock of it all, and the aforementioned trance, kept me watching something I didn't want to even _hear_ about as a secondhand account, as that boy's head slipped from his torso and hit the ground with a dull _thud_ , body still standing there eerily. The torso swayed back and forth slightly, as if trying to decide which way it would let gravity take it (if gravity even applied to those ethereal folk), but soon fell forward towards me as guided by his assailant's hand – _literally._ The body met the ground in similar fashion to his wayward head, only for both to disappear into wisps of smoke as if he never existed in the first place.

I'll be honest: I was terrified. Up until that point, it had never even begun to occur to me that the dead could suffer a second death; that they could be escorted to non-existence. The fact that the dead mingled about gave me some semblance of hope that there was life after death (if I was so petty to hang around as a spirit, and lucky for me I _am,_ indeed, _that petty_ ), but this revelation shook me to the core. Now I didn't just have to worry about my mortality, _no_ , I had to also worry about being offed a second time in some way, shape, or form. If this boy was any point I could draw reference from, then a blade would surely be the manner of my second death – funny, I thought it would be the day my name was truly forgotten thanks to the fragility of human memory that would be my second death.

But as I looked upon the boy's assailant, having to look up even as I stood to my full height – despite all bodily protests – I thought for half a second that I might, truly, be in over my head in this.

A young man cloaked in dark robes towered over me, looking like some kind of (dare I say it) samurai wannabe, or at least something Japanese in origin. I wasn't entirely sure, and I honestly didn't entirely care, as I was more focused on _that_ _blade,_ the blade used to slay that boy's soul. Matching his strange aesthetic, the murder weapon in question was a dull katana, though hardly dull in sheen or sharpness as it was as pale as bone, and just proved its efficiency. No, I just found the damn things boring and was thoroughly unimpressed by this display of him sheathing the sword. To think that child that plagued me was slain by this douche...

I had to crane my neck up and look a considerable distance to get a good look at the attacker's mug. Judging by the distance, he was easily over six feet tall, but curiously appeared to be close to my own age of sixteen. He had a strong, defined face, with slicked back brown-streaked blond hair, and distant violet eyes hidden behind thick glasses. I would've dubbed him as intimidating, but the glasses honestly killed any kind of fear I might've had concerning him very quickly – the stoic expression helped with none of that. He looked like what he was: a raging douchebag.

Though the worst of his atrocities, was not acknowledging my presence after committing a crime so heinous.

Even though I stood there, bloody and battered, right in front of him, he went about...whatever he was doing as if I didn't exist. From examining the spot where the boy once stood, to pulling out a goddamned flip phone of all things and playing with it, not once did he acknowledge the fact I was right there. I was completely taken aback by the nerve he had, barging into _my_ house and slaying one of _my_ resident poltergeists. Now I'm not entirely sure of the etiquette surrounding spectral neighbors, but I'm fairly certain it's considered rude to barge into someone's domicile, and murder one of their ghostly housemates. Even if said housemate was trying to brutally murder you moments earlier.

My impatience caught up to me quickly as the intruder continued to ignore my stare. I tried to make eye contact with him, but he never returned it as he seemed to be far too focused on whatever task he had set himself to. Wow, what a dick. So, as the _ever patient_ one I was, I cleared my throat in an attempt to get him to realize he had an audience, and a very unwilling one at that. Not learning my lesson, I tried again to grab his attention, a much louder _ahem_ cutting through the awkward silence – hell, I might've even uttered the damn sound! - but he still gave no response; he _still_ ignored me!

I swear that son of a bitch was trying to test my patience.

"Sir."

No response from the ghost slayer.

" _Sir._ "

Still, no response!

I thought I'd try names this time, so my next attempts to get his attention were none too...composed, or in good taste. "Mister Murderer. Sir Ghost Killer. Man-with-a-bad-fashion-sense. Mister I'll-be-living-in-my-mother's-basement-with-my-bodypillows-in-ten-year's-time. Culturally insensitive hipster." I felt my self cringe with each name I loosed, cursing myself out for not coming up with anything better as my head was too addled by pain to think properly.

But even still, he didn't respond to any of that! If anything, I was losing ground faster than gaining it, as he appeared to be wrapping up his ghastly task.

I had to think of something _quick_ to get his attention, no matter how unimaginative, or uncreative it may be. It just had to be effective.

"Hey!" I yelled out. "Are you even listening to me? I am trying to call out your life here, you could at least do a battered girl a favor and respond with at least a glance!" A pause, followed by a more condescending tone shift. "You aren't even going to defend yourself, or your honor. I accused you of one of the worst sins known to any who dare to consume the far east's brand of animated programming, and you said nothing to suggest that you are not, as they colloquially call it, a quote-unquote ' _weeaboo.'_ Considering your state of dress, I'd imagine that would've been one of the highest of offenses, and yet you stood there and let me suggest that you are so pathetic, and desperate that you make sweet, sweet love to a pillow at night. And you're not even looking at me. This is not reaching you, holy shit..." I let out a sigh as my snappy tone returned. "Are you really that arrogant to not even grant me the slightest of looks to validate my existence as a human being? Really? Are you too _high and mighty_ to talk to me, despite the clear fact you broke into my home, and killed one of the resident ghosts?" Not getting the response I wanted, I sighed loudly, defeated and mad at myself for having to resort to scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to insulting the douche who broke into my house.

" _Four-eyes._ " Venom dripped from my tongue as that left my mouth in a manner that left me sick to my stomach for having to fall back on such meaningless insults one would find in media from the _nineties._

But lo and behold, it _worked._

The unaware home invader froze where he stood, glancing this way and that with an irritated look on his face. It took him a few moments to finally realize that he had an audience, finally bringing himself to look down at me to meet the glare I held up at him as he finally established eye contact. I didn't realize a gesture as common as meeting someone's eye could be startling. Nay, I thought it was common courtesy to do just that! But _apparently_ , my gaze was that of Medusa's, with a look that could paralyze – figuratively in the sense of seizing up, or maybe literally in the calcifying sense? No, neither of those mattered, because apparently I had a hideous gaze that caused the young man before me to jump out of his skin and stare at me like _I_ was the one who didn't belonged there, in my own goddamned house. That stare one has when they've lain eyes on something that shouldn't be, and begin to question not only their situation, but also their life, choices, and self.

If only what he demanded was as elegant as my description of his apparent inner struggle.

"What the everlovin' _fuck_?!" came his brash voice, surprising me with the thick accent that I was fairly certain was British in origin – don't bother asking me exactly where in Britain, I'm too much of a New Yorker to even begin to guess. All I knew was his following stammering was reminding me too much of a character from one of my sister's beloved games, if only I could remember the name...it had something to do with a HAL 9000-esque figure, I knew that as much.

It took the blond before me a moment to finally recompose himself to actually manage to phrase a question properly, other than the previous expletive that hardly counts as a _question._ But what he managed to finally say wasn't exactly a mark of verbal prowess: "You can see me?!"

No shit, Sherlock.

I rested against the railing of the balcony, continuing to look up at the intruder in question. Interestingly enough, he looked genuinely confused, and almost concerned, though to hell if I knew why, exactly. I couldn't begin to figure out why someone would be so upset and worried over my ability to see them with the same clarity those enlightened hold, and even as I sat there and pondered it, my eyes still trained on the ghost killer, he seemed to catch on to whatever look had slipped into my eyes and all confusion and concern slipped away to be replaced with harsh stoicism. Good to know I got to him so easily.

Arms crossed over my chest, I tried to give him a dry look. Eyes half lidded, eyebrow cocked, and a sarcastic smirk tugged at my lips as I spoke, embellishing my speech as I went. "No, of course I can't see the _bespectacled blond_ in my home. I am _blind_ to the murderer in my midst who thinks he can play _samurai_ wherever he so pleases because he watched a few _animes_. _Never_ will I know of the invisible force that put an end to the child that prowled my halls, for I am _ignorant_ to the forces that be!" I paused for a moment, realizing my hand had gone to my chest in a dramatic display while I prattled. Setting it back on the railing, I looked him over again. "Dramatics aside," I started once more, as I dropped all form of decorum I could've possibly had, "what the _fuck_ do you expect? You walk into _my_ home, kill _my_ ghost – even though I'm still astronomically confused as to how you even managed to achieve such a feat – and then expect to leave _unnoticed_? You didn't even bother to hide, let alone pull off the kill discreetly! Of _course_ I'm going to see your atrocities in action; you didn't hide them well in the first place! Some home invader you are."

It took him a moment to respond, furrowing his brow in I supposed was the most he'd give me in ways of reading his expression. "Are you tryin' to tell me that you _seriously_ believe that was a ghost?"

"One, don't even try to _start_ damage control, you're well beyond that," was my response, snapped at him in a manner too quick for my own liking. "And two, he was as _much_ of a ghost as we are human, and you just broke all laws of reality and _slew_ the _dead – my ghost,_ mind you – so I'm going to have to ask you to answer for yourself, and your crimes."

Apparently, what I said was _funny_.

The ghost slayer snorted, his poker face slipping in favor of a smug, condescending smirk that he trained down at me all too easily thanks to the unfair height difference between the two of us. "What made you think I'm one o' your kind?"

It was so hard to not to give him the satisfaction of shooting an exasperated look at him. Try as I might, my will lost out to my overbearing irritation as that telltale glare settled on my face. Was he stupid?

"Do you want me to list the ways?"

He seemed to consider my question for a bit, hands at his sides and fingers tapping his hips, with lips pursed for a second before that look from earlier came back and made his face look more punchable than ever. "Why don't you? You seem to think you know a lot 'bout this subject, what with that ill-placed tone o' superiority in your voice. Go on, explain to me why I'm human, because you seem to know me _so well._ "

With a tone so challenging, I couldn't help but stare up at him with confident cockiness. I shouldn't have bought into his obvious bait, but my ego didn't help me in the least bit. Rather, it encouraged me to run head first into this, not allowing me to stop and think about consequences that may arise. You must understand, my pride was on the line.

A smile played across my lips coyly as I held myself up as high as my wounds would allow me. "It's really very simple. Short answer is you look as put together as I."

He snorted.

Apparently my wounds are funny to him.

A level glare was thrown at him. " _Long answer_ is you haven't the faintest wound nor blemish on you to suggest that you walk amongst the ranks of the departed. Unlike the boy, charred beyond belief with a cavity in his chest so comically horrific it'd make the Looney Tunes look harmless, you actually look alive. Now, you could be one of those lucky or unlucky enough to die in their sleep – it really depends on your outlook on life – but there's one problem with the idea that you're dead." I paused for dramatic effect, hand lifted to point as his chest. "Where's your chain? Every poor, tethered soul has one, be it attached to a building, or apparently devouring its owner. They appear as if they're installed postmortem, appearing over clothing in a manner most confusing. It's what differentiates the living from the dead. You don't have a visual – and _literal_ – anchor to this plane of existence, ergo you are not dead. Ergo, you are as human as I am. _Ergo_ , you're a mortal who managed to double kill a poor boy that has suffered far too much. _Ergo,_ you are a douchebag." I waved my extended hand in front of me, signifying the end of my speech and simultaneously boasting in that gestural manner that I had proved him wrong, that I was right.

He responded with sarcastic clapping.

The need to clock him, to knock him to his ass surfaced as he continued to leave that slow clapping as his response. I almost spoke up, but he beat me to it.

"Brilliant. Just absolutely, fuckin' _brilliant._ To think you're actually astute, when I had pegged you for one to repeat the obvious? Well done, Sherlock, well _done._ I was beginning to worry that you were a bit lackin' in the deduction department, but you've proved me wrong. The way you can just reason to conclusions so _quickly_ and so _inaccurately_ is just astoundin', I feel I might be just the slightest bit jealous! The way you can just break someone down that easily to sort them into simple categories like _douchebag,_ _mortal,_ and _human_ is so profound, and genius that I'm honestly gettin' a bit overwhelmed here! I fear I must excuse myself for this is just far too much for me. I must take my leave, miss woman-of-superior-intellect. You've clearly figured it _all_ out, and I'm not needed."

Was he _asking_ to get hit?

My nails dug into the railing behind me in an attempt to keep my temper under control, in an attempt to keep those words from getting the best of me. By the fact I would most definitely get splinters in my nail beds, it was clear that my efforts were failing. A strained sigh through clenched teeth was my first attempt at formulating a response, but that was dashed away by my own action of glancing to the side when I found nothing to say. The second attempt was when I opened my mouth to try and speak, but I clamped it shut with a clatter of my teeth when I was still at a loss for words.

I could feel his smug, victorious stare bore into the side of my head, and could almost see it out of my peripherals.

I cursed myself out before I even dared to attempt a third time; I had to figure out something to say first. I played back what he said and stewed over it for a second, trying to find the weak points in his unnecessary sass – sentiments I _hardly_ deserved. Something about it seemed defensive. Not in the sense that I had struck a chord, but in the sense that he was trying to hide something; that he wasn't being entirely forthcoming. I wanted to figure out what, but he didn't give me enough information to go off of.

But he did make the mistake of saying he _wasn't needed._

"Actually, I'd argue that your presence is still required," came my third attempt at speaking, as third time was the charm. I glanced over at him and watched his smugness falter as it melted into an irritated glare. "As I've pointed out _many_ times, you broke into my home. This is _my_ house, and _you're_ not supposed to be here. And worse still, you slew one of the ghosts that live here, and as curious as am I as to how you managed to pull off such a feat, you still- are you _laughing_ at me? Why the _hell_ are you laughing at me?!"

Through words broken up by his raucous laughter, he attempted to explain away his rude behavior: "Because you're so fuckin' _ignorant._ Holy _shit,_ you actually call them _ghosts_?"

I'll say this now, because I still swear it to this day, that if looks could kill, he would've been dead thrice over. The blank, exasperated look I gave him could have sliced through his smug visage in a manner similar to how he easily cut through that poor boy.

Okay, maybe that analogy was a bit too out of taste, and a bit too soon.

"Then what else do you call the spirits of those prematurely departed? Apparitions? That's a synonym. Ghasts? Just a simple change of a letter. Revenants? Suppose it'll work, but that also pulls in animated corpses. So please, tell me what this strange term is that I, someone who talks with _ghosts,_ helps _spirits,_ and fends off terrors like _poltergeists_ doesn't seem to know. Go on. _Enlighten me._ "

His expression at first was one of genuine confusion, with a slight head tilt and furrowed brow to suggest a lack of understanding. It then morphed into something that dared to suggest a question of his was answered, that look of realization that crosses one's face, before it shifted into that irritating smugness once more.

"How can I when you've so firmly rooted yourself in those misguided names? You claim to know the dead, and yet you continue to mislabel them with those archaic terms!" A laugh erupted from him, as he apparently found his statement funny, or clever.

"In what reality does that qualify as a response to my question? You've made it strikingly clear that the terms are archaic. I get it, they should belong in a museum – someone fetch the curator! But I'd have him take his time because we've yet to find a suitable replacement yet. Can't exactly archive the old before we find something new to fill the void with, hm? So do all of the linguists who wait with abated breath a favor, and answer me already! Maybe then we can put those supposedly outdated names to rest once and for all."

To say that I was losing my patience with this intruder was an understatement – I'd warrant it'd even be a nominee for _largest_ understatement of the year, right up there with the longstanding winner, "It's going to be alright."

That _oh_ so cliche _tsk_ came from the douche, repeating 'til thrice uttered whilst he shook his head in time with it. "See, bit o' a problem there. I _can't._ It's...oh, what was it that you of the corporeally confined say? Oh, right." He took a step forward, leaning down to meet my eye in a display so smug that it was overkill for him to wear the smirk he did. "It's none o' your business, an' somethin' you needn't to know."

Instinct caused me to slightly reel my head back when he leaned forward, eyes narrowed in his direction. I wish I could say that I responded in a timely manner, but between my struggle to say something back and the numbness brought 'bout through the pain that plagued me ever still, you could say there was a bit of _lag_ on my end, causing a slight delay in the conversation. When my mind finally caught up to what was said and forced my body to respond, it was a raised eyebrow that signified the fact I was still in the conversation, an eyebrow that acted as an affront to his dubious statement.

"Is that so? Well, pardon me for assuming that your loose lips concerning my peculiar ability was more worthy of secrecy than a _name_. Clearly, a moniker is more incriminating than the fact that you work in stealth. Additionally, the information that I'm apparently one of the few who can witness your macabre task would also seem to outweigh the importance of a fucking _name._ But that's just me, a silly soul trapped inside a flesh suit. What do I know?" A dismissive wave of my hand punctuated my question as I let a moment of silence fall over the both of us. Fingers curling thoughtfully back towards me, I shot a glance back up at the bespectacled blond as I continued. "Actually, I do know something. Going off of your, ' _You can see me?!'_ cliche, I've arrived at the conclusion that you are one of two things: either you stand before me as a shitty burglar, mind addled with delusions of invisibility, or-" I allowed a pause to hang over us, my face revealing only pride in an attempt to mask away the pain that threatened to surface.

"You're among the legions of the dead."

When no response came from him verbally, but rather a flicker of anger or irritation that played across his eyes, I found it necessary to pressure him for a response. I did take a moment to let him collect his thoughts, but he remained silent still. I finally roused a response out of him with a quick, "Though, with all things considered, it's more likely the former than it is the latter," that was punctuated with a flourish of my hand.

An incredulous look was cast down at me, a glare accompanying it in standard fashion (of course, by standard I refer to the only one the douchebag understood). I met the look with one of unwavering pride until he forfeited with a roll of his eyes. "Believe what you will, I'm not robbin' you o' your escapist delusions, but do you _really_ have to word it like that? Holy shit, and I thought _I_ was bad. You're fuckin' _insane_."

Oh goody, he caught on. Thought he never would.

"Well, which is it?" I asked with a tilt of my head. "Are you the thief who neglected his medication, or are you the undead soldier that awaits the end of times to enact war upon the living? As you didn't specify which one you are, I can only assume one or the other; both, or neither. And to be frank with you, I'm going to choose to believe _shitty house burglar_ , as that makes the most logical sense."

"Y'know, this is normally where I'd demand that you take a stab at the answer and actually use your head for once, but that'd be givin' you too much credit. Not to _mention_ the fact I already know your _loathsome_ answer. You're not going to change it at all, are you?"

"Well, when you put it that way, you're right. How could I be so blind!" A hand went to my chest that was soon followed by a gasp. "You're neither! Forgive me for my idiocy, I should have realized it sooner. The higher powers that may or may not be should smite me where I stand for how ill informed I truly am! I now see the error of my ways! For you are neither thief nor ghast, nay! You are – dare I say it – an _amateur exorcist_ who thinks he's _God's gift to the world._ One who thinks himself so great he parades around in an _elaborate cosplay_ for the world to see how much of a douche he is! Forgive me for my prior assumptions; I had been blinded by perceived truths, such as your forced entry into my domicile, and your assault on my resident spirits. Please, for the sake of my clearly mortal spirit, find it in your lack of a heart to forgive me!"

Multiple times during my outburst did he try to speak up, make some kind of vain attempt to interrupt me; but each time I responded by raising my volume until I had drowned him out and completed my dramatics in a manner I was fairly satisfied with. Once my speech had come to its natural conclusion, I finally allowed him a moment to speak his piece.

"Again, _insane,"_ he quickly stated right off of the bat as if I would start speaking again (believe me, I was tempted to). "And may I point out for the umpteenth fuckin' time this conversation alone, _incorrect_ and _ignorant._ I thought that maybe you'd actually use that brain you were given, seein' as that's its function while its still flesh floatin' 'round a dome o' bone. But no, you neglect to do so an' suggest I'm some kind o', kind o'..." He trailed off into a pause, blinking slightly in confusion as I caught him asking the quiet question of "The fuck is cosplay?" under his breath. Another few beats of silence went by before he finally raised his voice to a more appropriate level: "Never mind that. Never mind any o' that, movin' _on._ What I was _goin' to say_ , was my astonishment at the fact that, despite your unsightly low intelligence, you've managed to maintain _supernatural_ levels o' hubris. You come so close to the truth, yet your self assurance in what you believe to be reality stands in the way and keeps you from seein' the truth _right_ before your eyes. You are so _painstakin'ly close_ to figurin' it out, yet _so fuckin' far away_ that you might as well be stranded out at sea. So let me do you a _favor_ and help you not sound like the dunce who never pays attention, alright?

" _I'm_ _dead._ You aren't supposed to _see me_ because we exist in a form o' _limbo_ that you _mortals_ aren't supposed to be privy o'. So it's less you bein' _special_ for bein' able to see me, an' more you bein' a _freak o' nature._ Now stop whinin' about that ' _ghost'_ an' leave me alone." The douche before me straightened, hooking his fingers into the white sash around his waist. He gave me a once over before speaking up again: "An' besides, why do you care? It was tryin' to kill you anyways. Did you forget that part, or did it inflict enough head trauma that it made you forget?"

I narrowed my eyes in his direction, responding with a simple: "I'm selfish. That was a ghost that haunted _my_ house – therefor _my_ ghost – and you killed _him."_

"Oh my _god_ , you're still goin' with _ghost."_

"Because you've given me nothing else to call it!"

Silence took the opportunity to hang around us again, milling about while we stared each other down. I kept an impatient look on my face, as it clearly represented what I felt in that moment; he kept an irritated look, one that made me certain he'd sock me in the gut (not a new trend, mind you). The looks remained for as long as Silence decided to stay, drawing out a few moments longer. I was about to shoo the damn pest away to get things back on track, but the anthropormoph I had created for the sake of this argument was quickly blown away in a particularly violent manner by the dick before me opening his mouth.

"How can you _see me_?"

"I'll tell you if you grant me the information I desire."

His next look was one I caught easily as it flitted across his eyes; one of hesitation, yet also underlying curiosity and temptation. That look when you know you shouldn't be doing something, yet are considering it heavily while weighing the consequences. That contemplative look remained on his face, all the while remaining quiet. The silence was _infuriating_ , as I had to wait through it while I became more and more aware of the creeping pain that threatened to further incapacitate me. So infuriating, in fact, that I was the one who spoke up this time.

"What's the harm in it?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow at him. "It's not as if I could tell any about it without seeming like I listen to late night radio shows too often. I may be able to see ghosts, but I'm no Clyde Lewis. So if this is about letting loose a dark, incriminating secret onto the world, then fret not for I've nary a soul to tell without seeming like a candidate for the Sanitarium down in the dark reaches of Arkham. To put it plainly, your secrets are safe with me.

"Though now that I think about it," I added while he continued to think on my offer, "don't you think it silly to try and cover this whole secret spectral 'life' up after I was nearly beaten to death by one of your kind? And if you're trying to keep this all a secret, how am I to explain to my peers, or – worse yet! - my _family_ that I desperately need to go to the hospital from these grievous wounds I sustained from a _ghost."_ I paused, full realizing the weight of what I had said. This was apparent through the look on my face, and my sudden stiffness in posture. "Fuck, I do need to explain that to her." With a shake of my head, I brought my attention back to the one in front of me. "That aside, why don't you do me a solid and at least give me some peace of mind before I go to the ER, hm? Because I am _literally dying_ to know."

In an act that surprised me, and still does to this day, the dead guy's expression softened slightly for whatever reason. Now this was no look of concern, mind you, it was just an expression that wasn't nearly as harsh as before. Another few excruciating seconds passed before he let out a loud sigh, shaking his head.

"Fine." He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight to one side as he seemed to size me up. "Besides the obvious connotations the phrase 'what's the harm in it' holds – because you _know_ there will be harm in it, and that is _exactly_ why you said it – fine. But you'd best hold up your side of the bargain. Understood?"

"Understood. First, however-"

"Oh _what now?_ "

"Before we even begin, I'd like to return to my room." That earned me a look of confusion, before realization hit his face along with – again – a _softer look_. "I refuse to hold this conversation here on the deck for a multitude of reasons, but the main one is I would like to lay down – or even just sit down! - so long as I don't have to stand here and listen to you explain why that wasn't a ghost. Is that alright with you, sir?"

"I suppose I'd be alright with it," he responded. "Though you don't look like you're in the shape to be hobblin' 'round. Highly doubt you could even make it there."

I let out a resounding scoff, holding my head up pridefully as I attempted to stand up straight. "Keep your concerns to yourself; I've no use for them. I can make it just fine. It's not like this is the worst thing that's happened to me."

I feel I must correct the above statement, as it was said by a younger, and more prideful self (if you can believe that): I could not make it "just fine." The moment my hands left the railing and I attempted to take a step forward, my legs seemed to liquefy as an act of rebellion against me, making it impossible to support my weight and, by extension, keep me on my feet. My body acted against my will, crumpling beneath me and plummeting towards the ground. And though I thought for sure I was going to end up as a pile of twisted flesh and broken bones on the balcony floor, the blond's surprisingly quick reflexes kept that from happening. Yes, the sudden stop hurt like a _bitch_ , but I'm sure hitting the ground would've hurt more.

"Like I said."

I took a deep breath as he readjusted his grip to better support my weight, trying not to react verbally to the pain it caused. Despite what I've suggested countless times now, I did have enough humility to admit I was wrong. A quick, "'Suppose you're right," was muttered under my breath, followed by a near silent, "Thanks," as he started towards the inside of my home.

His response was a nonverbal one, only glancing down at me before looking back ahead and beginning to walk me through the dark hall of my own home. Conversation wasn't exactly a priority then, and it showed through our lack of communication during the trek to my room. Once did I speak to let him know where to go, but for the most part we chose to remain silent.

The walk was a long one, due to the crawling pace we had to take in order to not break my back any further, and the silence was suffocating. I didn't feel right to speak up, beyond letting him know that a particular hallway lead to a dead end and that he shouldn't traverse it. He just didn't seem like the chatty type. That, and I wasn't to keen on initiating small talk with the one who killed one of my resident ghosts while I dealt with the injuries from the aforementioned specter.

Thank god he was the one who opened it; I would've made it terribly awkward.

"If we're goin' to be talkin' for any length, I've got to at least know what you call yourself," he started. "'Mortal,' 'insane bitch,' and 'freak' get redundant after a while. What's the name you go by?"

At least he was being honest with the animosity towards me, I could at least give him that. I paused for a second in an act that suggested I was trying to catch my breath, though in reality I was thinking of a response. It took a moment, but I finally came up with an answer:

"Flighty Broad. You can call me Flighty Broad."

We stopped moving.

"I will _actually_ drop you and leave you here if you seriously think you can convince me _that's_ your name."

I let out a loud snort, pausing a moment later due to the pain that brought me. "Oh dear, you've seen right through me. I've no choice but to give you my highly coveted name, and not my airtight alias." I could feel him moving my arm in a threat, as if making good on his promise. "Drop me, and you don't learn the secrets I keep." When he didn't move to drop me, but also didn't move to correct my stance, I sighed and continued. "I've been given the name of Rose Lalonde; not the grandest of names, but one that'll have to do."

He contemplated what I said for a second, as if trying to detect any sarcasm that may have tainted my words. After a few moments, seemingly satisfied with my answer, he continued down the hall.

"I know the dead have names," I started. "You demanded mine, so let me do the same: what's it you go by?"

"Eridan." He paused. "Eridan Ampora."

I said nothing on the matter; the surety in which he said his name was enough for me. I cared not how strange his name sounded, or if it was fake; it was something to call him by other than _glasses wearing murderer,_ even though the latter was infinitely more fun.

Having both finally introduced ourselves, not another word was spoken. We had nothing else to say as we continued the long walk down the hall. Silence held domain over us, her presence keeping us quiet as Eridan helped me through the winding passageway that lead to the confines of my room, the prospect of relief being my only motivator during that slow, agonizing shamble.

* * *

 _TEN THOUSAND WORDS_ can give you SUCH-well, nothing in the grand scheme of things. Sorry for making y'all wait a year, but there's been so much going on that I haven't really gotten to this.

If you guys are interested in anything and everything Inkspill, go check out my blog - crystallineAbyss - on tumblr! My Inkspill tag has the chapters, concept sketches, and updates as I'm writing the chapters. Check it out when you get the chance!

Thanks for bearing with me! And thanks for reading!  
~Enya


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